Schattenfreund
by SadeLyrate
Summary: Limp!Sam...though not fully. Because they're not always nightmares. Early season 1, Sam POV, angst and carnality. Complete.
1. Saturnine

Summary: Sam broods like a hen. Because this is set in (very) early season 1. I'm afraid I can't do funny except in the summaries, though.

Warnings: Spoilers mainly just for the first quarter of the 1st season. Some speculation, some random throwaway characterizing details you're just as likely to miss as catch throughout all the episodes that have aired so far.  
Sam/Jess fluff via reminiscing, 'cause I'm with Dean on drawing the line usually at necrophilia. ;)

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: To **wild wolf free17** for agreeing to beta this beast. She did a wonderful job!  
And **Ephiny63**? This happens when rabid bunnies are further encouraged.

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Saturnine**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

They trundled to a stop in another town, another state. He didn't really pay attention when or where they drew in for the night. It wasn't Palo Alto; it seemed just as likely as any other similar place for their father to pop up in. Ditto for whatever the thing that killed Jessica had been.

Dean checked them in a motel, casting the same glances at him like he had for the weeks since...he closed his eyes, but that only made it worse.  
Jessica burned, angel clad in flames as Hell welcomed her, eyes alive enough to haunt him, disembodied voice filled with blame.  
So he pushed the images away, rose out of the car, followed Dean with dry eyes.

Into the motel, into a bar, back to looking for any clues that might reveal the whereabouts of John Winchester, the identity of the thing that had shattered his dreams, left behind naught but nightmares.

The waitress patted his hand, threw out some semi-sympathetic comment, left with a wink and swaying hips. Dean watched her go, green eyes flicking back to him without a word. After a swig of his beer, proclamation like a plea, he rose and headed off to check out the pool table.

Quietly, ignoring the crowd, ears still perked to catch any sign of trouble, Sam drew up the laptop, logged in.  
The night wore on, the waitress (_red hair, brown eyes, Shelley_) stopped by him once or twice, smiling, bending, chattering, not getting the hint. He was too tired, too worn, too hurt to be polite, to do anything but sit there, pretend the world away. And eventually, she stopped.

"It'll get better," she whispered, slipping her slender fingers into his for a broken beat before hurrying off.

Without a glance, he crumpled the piece of paper in his fist, let it drop into the ashtray. Dean was lining up his shots, seizing up the Joes and Bobs, letting a couple of balls go astray as Shelley walked past, extra roll to her behind.

He felt numb.  
He should have felt a lot of things, sharp and strong and strangling, not mere echoes fluttering at the edges of his consciousness.

_Jess is gone._

And if not for the way his heart still beat, his lungs still demanded air, his body still required sustenance, he would have believed himself dead, too.

He swallowed the thoughts down, let his gaze travel, touch on his brother, return to the cold glow of the screen in front of him.

Dean played the guys with a glance here, another there, carefree, pitting beginner's luck against veteran's patience, hunter's senses against layman's pride.

Midnight meandered past, swept up the shadows in the corners.  
Sam hid as best he could, kept half an eye on Dean, let his fingers dance over the keys of the laptop. Took his cue as Dean laid down his own, ready to leave the moment his brother brushed past him.

The night air filled his lungs with weariness; sleep stalked him all the way to the motel. Rest he would have welcomed, but all he could hope for was impotent rage.

"You okay?"

The dying engine almost drowned the quiet question.  
Sam opened the eyes he didn't recall closing, met briefly the green gaze.

"Yeah," he answered, got out, the laptop heavy in its bag.

"That waitress seemed to take a liking to you."

He ignored that, making his way inside. Dean followed him as he shrugged out of his jacket, undressing unconsciously.

"Sam?"

"I'm just tired, Dean, okay? The sooner we sleep, the sooner there's tomorrow, the sooner we can continue looking for Dad."

Dean fiddled with the keys, the bullet identifier enough.

"I don't know... We could stay here a couple of days. You know, have some fun, stretch your legs-"

"There's nothing here, Dean."

The smirk spread like wildfire over the stubbled features.

"There's a pretty waitress with your name on her."

The glance he cast at Dean lacked the power he wanted. The frustrated feelings bubbled in his blood; he bit his tongue to keep from lashing out, grabbing his toiletries and making his way into the bathroom.

Dean kept on talking, though his words were blurred by the rush of water in the pipes, the blood in his veins as Jess burst in all her mocking glory behind his closed eyes.

_Just pleasepleaseplease drop it, Dean._

Ignoring the blabbering had worked before.  
But on the other hand, 'before' was four years ago.

And Dean had gotten more stubborn during those years, if nothing else.

"-seemed real friendly. And you can't tell me you missed-"

"Dean." That worked. "Enough. You like her, go act out your fantasies. Leave me out of them."

The other man rolled his eyes, rising to his feet as Sam drew back the covers on his bed.

"Come on, Sam...You hardly even glanced at her!"

"There's nothing here. I'm tired. All I want is for this to be over. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we'll find Dad."

A look skimmed over Dean's face at that. The same guarded expression he'd seen flash in his brother's eyes everytime he said or did anything even distantly hostile when it was just the two of them. It burned him, worse than the memory of the fire all around him.

"What?"

"Just...you could try and live a little, once in a while." It came out quietly, not really worried, hand scratching the back of Dean's neck.

"My life burned in Palo Alto."

That shut Dean up. For good. Sam turned his back, closed his eyes, willed himself to sleep. Stealthy steps paced into the bathroom and back, bedding rustled, bedsprings creaked time and again until breaths evened out.

"Good Night, Sammy."

He could have cried at the soft whisper.


	2. Stertorous

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: To **wild wolf free17** for being a quick betaer. Without her eyes, I'd be lost!  
**Ephiny63** continues to inspire the bunnies, **jink** made me blush with (her?) praise and **rower4life** eased my ever-present worry of failing with the boys.  
Thank You, everyone. Feedback is definitely a dangerously addictive drug. And encouraged, not to mention highly appreciated, especially if I'll manage to learn something out of it.

_Petting ahead.   
Sam-specific Angst ahead.  
Spoilerish for 1x05, Bloody Mary._

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Stertorous**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

_Her hands slip down his sides, fingers finding their way further, her lips on his. She tastes sweet, apricots and peaches, as she presses deeper, catching his tongue with hers, her skin soft under his hands.  
Her hair tickles his face, lively eyes catching his gaze, filled with love and lust. She smiles like a sylph above him, his touch recording every contour, relishing the feel of her, the heat between bodies pressed together.  
Her kisses burn a blazing path, his fingers drifting up as she dips ever lower, her hands wandering over his stomach, reaching to brush his chest as she teases, languid and loose, soft lips nipping and nibbling. _

_She crawls back up, her body supple over his own, voice husky. _

_"You're like a drug," she whispers, her desires easy to read with all the senses, demanding a response, shiver suffusing in the shadows. "The more I have, the more I want." _

_Memory fails to offer competition to challenge how _right _she feels, words fleeing him so he just kisses the top of her head, sensing her smile against his skin. _

_She props herself up on her arms, looks down at him, lips curved in a promise. He leans into her touch as she cups the side of his face, turns to caress her palm with his lips. _

_"Why, Sam?" _

_And she's afire, flames her hair, the blaze running down her arms to catch at him. Horrified, frozen, he can only watch as everything coalesces into an inferno, screams strangled by the stench._

He startled awake, sheets tangled in his fingers, skin sweat-shot, whole, flame kissed only in memory. Every single muscle in his body was tense, aching with adrenaline, lungs failing to draw in enough air, solid presence uncomfortable between his bed and belly.

Green eyes glittered at him from the other bed, questions crisp even in the half-light.

_Dream._

The pillow swallowed his sob as he turned away again, hugging it as close as possible.

_Just another stupid, fucking dream._

Silence returned, twin breaths calmed, both beds quiet.

He tried to will his body to relax, loosen. There was no threat in the shadows, no flame above him. No lover against him.

Sleep refrained, the burn in his eyes as sharp as the flashback-smell of blazing flesh and hair.

He stared at the silhouette of the divider, not really seeing it, counting down memories before morning.

Shades reappeared, slow and languid, dispelling the monochrome of the never-ending night after an eternity.  
With them, Sam forsook the pretense and rose, morning routines like a favourite glove. If he could have, he would have laughed at how easily he'd fallen back into the rules of the road. As if the four years had never happened. As if Jessica had never happened, and all they'd shared had been nothing but a dream.  
As if their Dad was with them.

But he wasn't. Jess was dead; he'd thrown everything she'd stood for to the four winds, stepped into the Impala like he'd never left without a second thought. And the bond he'd shared with his brother was a path no one had treaded in over two years.

_Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.-_

The sharpness of that phrase cut ever deeper when he changed his clothes and Dean roused, stretching. Quiet gaze settled on him, and he couldn't meet it, the cords of his sneakers dancing in his fingers. Without a word, the elder man stood up, sauntered behind the thin door. Sam leaned back, let his eyes drift shut.

_"When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"_

Dean'd been right back then, he was right now, too. The only difference was that his brother no longer voiced the question.

Sam knew genuine sleep, no matter how well pretended or avoided, was something nothing human could survive without. But at least he wasn't getting instant reminders of _that_ night anymore every time he closed his eyes.

Dreaming of Jessica, the way she had been, alive and beautiful and soft and warm and _alive_ was possibly worse, though.

Dean stalked out of the bathroom, rummaged around his bag.

Once the morning broke, everything seemed to become a little bit easier. During the day, he could deal, he could find something else to occupy his mind.

"You thought about what I said?" Voice soft, rest-rough around the edges. He didn't open his eyes, remained where he lay.

"About...?" There was a prayer woven in the breath that escaped with that one word: _Please, not yet._

"About getting that ball of nasty things you insist on luggin' around untangled?"

Dean was looking at him again; he could imagine the gaze, like a hawk looking for a fish.

_...I can't do this. Not yet. Please. I can't watch you put it all together..._

"Breakfast first."

He was out the door before Dean could complain, the chill air refreshing.

By noon, they'd be well on their way to somewhere else. Hopefully closer to their father, the thing that took Jess from him.

After that was killed, burned, salted, banished, maybe...maybe then he could face what Dean would do. _What Dad will do with his freak of a son..._

He didn't dare to think how that very prey had eluded the mighty John Winchester for over two decades.

* * *

-"Everything changes, nothing perishes." (Ovid) 

**Author's Notes**:  
_ All _the chapters of this story will be Sam POV. That'll probably be fun.  
I thought there was something else, too, but I can't get Rodney Carrington's 'The Beer Song' out of my head. 0r Johnny Cash's 'God's Gonna Cut You Down'...;)


	3. Suasion

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: To **wild wolf free17** for the beta, like always.  
It's a pleasure to know that **ephiny63**, **heather03nmg**, **friendly**, **Freefall** and my dear **wild wolf free17** found this tale comment-worthy.  
Thank You, everyone.

_Random wild speculation about Sam/Jess-relationship, their antics._

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Suasion**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

If the diner had been a human, Sam suspected it would have been just as much a morning person as Dean. It would have had hair that was not going to comply, eyes bleary, reflexes sluggish, just as likely to burrow back into the bed as rise up and tackle the day's chores. At least until it had a cup of coffee.

Dean was skimming through a newspaper, consumed by the double-duty of reading and eating.

Sam picked absent-mindedly at his bagel, eyes on the bare, frost-bitten branches of the trees, glittering in the rising sun. It was beautiful. Similar, he thought, to the first morning of the last January.

The memory revived the loss' strength, sucker-punched the air out of him. Dean cast him a glance, relented as he took a sip of his coffee, kept his eyes on the world outside, let his mouth automatically deal with the food.

That Saturday refused to leave his mind. They'd spent the New Year's Eve with some of Jessica's friends and family, out of California. Watched the fireworks, slumbered off in the dark hours before dawn. Woken up with Jessica freaking because she thought she'd be late for school, dream-dazed enough to forget the date and the place until he'd pulled her close, pointed out the sun peeking through the clouds, the sparkles in the leafless trees. Felt the warmth and life of her like a dream come true in his arms. But...

"Hey, check this out."

The newspaper was prodded at him, the voice quiet, gentle, stopping that train of thought before it crashed. An obituary under Dean's finger announced to the world how Herbert Skylon, 33, dead of a heart failure, would have his family grieve in peace and quiet.

Nothing about that rung even a singular bell. Enough bad habits, and the heart would give out one day sooner rather than later. The picture above the few lines didn't exactly look like a school book example of a victim, though. The olive-skinned man smiled out from the paper, lean and well.

"And?" he prompted as Dean remained quiet. The other man shrugged, drew the paper back.

"It might be worth looking into."

"Dean...since when has heart attack been an occurrence of our...caliber?"

"Since my gut says so."

Sam shook his head, disbelieving, feeling the laughter at that irrefutable logic bubbling relievingly under his ribs.

"Look...it may be nothing, alright. But I don't wanna leave town without at least checking it out. You game?"

"Going to leave me alone if I say 'no'?"

Smile slipped easily onto Dean's lips, the glint in the green eyes jocular.

"Nope."

As if he'd expected any other answer... So he shrugged, leaned back, resigned to let Dean chew this bone to the core.

"So...what? Talk to the family, check out his health records, where he was?"

_Is that approval in Dean's eyes?_

"Don't forget looking for similar cases."

After that, comfortable quiet returned. Slumber settled on his soul like a serpent, fatigue familiar. He'd catch some shut-eye later on, when Jess would let him.

Dean wolfed down the rest of his meal, finished the newspaper with equal care, rose after an appraising look at Sam.

"Coming?"

He'd please his brother, deal with this no matter what the verdict, play along. Fighting about it would only prolong their stay, keep them from their 'mission', in lack of a better term.

So they went forth and met the family, the wife and the three sons, charmed their way in (_"We heard Herb passed away, and just wanted to offer our condolences"_), learned how well life had treated Mr Skylon...that is, until he was found dead in the morning after his daily jogging routine.

Having tea (_"Thank you, Mrs Skylon."_), they learned that the man had been healthier than any ox ever. Slightly stressed about upcoming changes in his job, but nothing else. The family was the very picture of a healthy life, all three sons had inherited their father's stamina. Herbert had been an orderly man, happy in his set life.

_Normal._

Freaky accident as an explanation sat as well with Dean as it had in Ohio (_"Think it's the Candyman this time?"_), so they hit the local library next, checked out the history of the town. Repeating moves like a clockwork, going through the motions like puppets.  
Familiar ways and patterns of operation he automatically fell into, following his brother's lead like a lovesick pup. The blur of words filled the quiet hours, Dean leaving him to read, vanishing into the depths of the building for god knew what.

Sam skimmed through newspaper after newspaper, article after article, every local legend he could get his hands on until the words joined forces with weariness.

_Gentle hands touch his shoulders, fingers pressing with experience on the aching muscles, locating knots with ease. He leans into the warmth, eyes closing as he recognizes the rhyme she's softly humming, her hands working calmly. Ends of sun-kissed waves brush his face, lips his own. _

_"Bed's a nicer sleeping spot, love," she murmurs into his ear, placing a kiss on the spot below. _

_"I was reading," he answers, smiling. _

He was reading.

_But her fingers slip under his shirt, tracing paths to lure his thoughts from studying. _

_"How about reading my lips?" She laughs, rounding the chair, settling onto his lap. "You." Kiss. "Read." Kiss. "Too." Kiss. "Much." _

_He chuckles against her mouth. _

_"What should I do then?" _

_Her eyes glint as she pulls back, hands on his shoulders, light glimmering in her hair, lips curling into a smile of the Cheshire Cat. _

_"I have a couple of ideas..." _

_Her lips devour his anew, her warmth and weight against him right in all the ways that matter; the hunger, need, desire ache through his heart and soul, arousal besieges his body. This is his home, his sanctuary, his paradise. _

This was he, waking up on top of old records, Dean's voice and touch as jarring as the sharp light of a wintry sun, slicing through the windows. Reminding him that the reality refused to grant him his dreams, forced him to live in a nightmare where Jess was dead, Dad was gone without a trace, and all he could do was remember with too much clarity the horrors he'd witnessed for the past months.

"You know, last time I checked, that osmosis-thing doesn't work with books and people." But Dean's eyes were hard, his voice laced with concern.

He shrugged off the hand, glanced at the papers spread on the table. Everything even distantly weird occurrence over the last decade, more or less. Nothing with heart attacks. A local version of the hitchhiker, something large and furry in the woods (_lion?_), wannabe-witches with their RPG-books and 'mystick' amulets...

Running his hands through his hair, trying to ignore the tightness in his heart and groin, he sighed, glanced up.

"You got better luck?"

Smile that didn't reach the eyes, watching him like a hawk again, Dean offered him a newspaper. It was more recent than the ones he'd been reading, dated just a bit over a week before. The elder didn't wait for him to find the correct article, but pointed out the photo of a young, smiling man.

"Thomas Mainer, 25, died two weeks ago. Of a heart failure."

There was an edge to the voice now, the one that said loud and clear 'I was right!'. The one that he didn't have the strength to fight with. Not right now.

"So? You think some spirit's scaring them to death?"

Dean shrugged, sitting down on a chair nearby.

"Don't know. You find anything? Other than desire to test out new sleeping spots?"

The words hurt more than all logic claimed they should possibly have. Sam rose up briskly, started gathering the scattered tomes.

"Only if you think it's a lion stalking the streets, a hitchhiker who's lost his marbles, a coven of witches barely out of high school or a chicken with two heads."

He was cranky, and none of it had anything to do with Dean (_not all of it_), but he couldn't be bothered to care. He stuffed the editions back where he'd taken them from, fled into the afternoon chill of winter, Dean hot on his heels.

The need for vengeance burned as brightly as the guilt in his gut, the memories of her body. The biting air struggled to suffocate him, cool off his feelings. They were working a case. He was useless if he couldn't ignore such stupid distractions.  
He drew in a deep breath, the cold nipping at his skin.

"So what's Tom's story, then?"

Dean eyed him as they made their way to the car, voice deceptively light and cocksure.

"Susan, you know, the nice girl with crimson hair at the desk? She was a friend of his. She said they'd let him sleep in on Saturday, found him dead in his room when they went to drag him up by afternoon. Also, according to her, he was in top shape. Last time he'd been sick was in high school or something. And that's why people are saying he OD'd on somethin'."

"Did he?"

"Only one way to find out, Sammy."

He groaned at that. No matter how many times they did it, he would never feel comfortable being in the same building with already-dead people.

"Oh, come on. If the locks scare you, I can deal with them."

The dirty look he cast at his brother was faced with the trademark smirk, the Impala purring to life around them.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
Curiously enough, I've noticed that this story flows well when I write the Jess/Sam-scenes. Everything else seems to usually...get stuck. Apparently, the fluffbunny's hungry.  
What do you think? 


	4. Susurrus

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: The gracious beta: **wild wolf free17**.  
To **friendly** and **heather03nmg** for their encouragement. **Everyone else**, too, for reading.  
I'm nowhere near a native of America, so I'll just pull any details concerning geography and/or culture out of one of my lovely hats. Apologies if this rubs anyone the wrong way, but please let me know, and I'll promise I'll be a good girl. At least for the next hundred miles. :)

_Nothing new ahead.   
Meaning speculations are freely sown._

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Susurrus**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

It wasn't that hard to locate Mainer's family, so they went to see his parents, pretending to be some friends of friends who'd just heard about his passing, what with being on a road trip and everything. Just like Skylon, he'd been healthy and well and fine, enjoying his life.

The one thing the Mainers seemed to grieve the most, though, was that losing their son effectively robbed them off the chance of ever having any grandchildren. Something they repeatedly brought up, especially since "That girlfriend of his, Sandy, is such a nice girl." After hearing that Sandy had left the town after the funeral (_"I'm sorry, dear, we don't know where"_), they bid their farewells.

Dean's head was in the case so deep it was wonder he could still find it, throwing out suggestions as to what creepy crawler had killed the two men while they grabbed something to eat, returned to the motel to kill the hours preceding the nightfall. The idea of wandering in and prettily asking the orderlies to let them have a look at these couple of guys' autopsy reports had Dean claiming they hadn't enough dead presidents to buy their way in this time. About the spell in the library, last night (_weeks_) his lips remained sealed.

His eyes, however, were flecked with the half-plea, half-fear of worry, no matter how covert, every time their gazes met. Dean read through what Sam had scrounged up, while the lean man sat in front of the laptop, familiarized himself anew with the world of darkness beyond a few key strokes.

Body on autopilot, his mind wandered, returned to the dreams. There were the ones in the library, last night. The ones he remembered from his adolescence, returning now with revenge. The ones surrounding November like Saturn's rings.  
The ones last summer.

Before the fire, they'd been nothing but a curiosity, no matter how vivid. Jess and he had clashed a couple of times, both of them weary of the hot weather and the jobs leeching away their time together, snapping at each other for stupid reasons because it was too long since lunch or the laundry wasn't done or the week had flown by. Or because he lacked sleep, waking up in the middle of the night, feeling sick at the blood and hopelessness in his weird dreams.

But those had passed, he'd forgotten about them, the summer had abated, a new semester had begun. No reason to think witnessing some random person taking their own life would be anything but his subconscious dealing with the stress.

He'd ignored his dreams and at least one had died already because he'd done _nothing_. Written off the fire as a result of his fears, feasting on what Dean and Dad had told him of the night they stopped having a 'home'.

"Sam?"

It took him a moment to register the fact that he'd been staring, unseeing, at the same site for a good while, Dean's quiet voice prodding him out of the semi-slumber he'd slipped into.

He swallowed, looked around, faced that gaze. "What?"

Wariness met him, green eyes naked with requests, voice betraying none of them as it softly continued.

"You know, beds are designed to be slept in."

He shrugged, stretched, closed the laptop. No argument there.

"Your nights are still broken, aren't they?"

He opened his mouth to answer, retort with some cunning comeback, shrug it off, but found the words turning to ashes on his tongue at the look in Dean's eyes.  
He couldn't lie to Dean. Worse, he couldn't tell him the truth.

He wouldn't be able to deal with it if Dean thought him a freak.

Besides, two freakily realistic dreams in at least a score of years?

Even for them, that'd be stretching it.

So he shrugged again, let his gaze drop onto the hibiscus-laden cover.

He wanted to rest, he wanted to forget, but laying down meant most likely sleep, which meant dreams, which meant Jess and fire and death.

_No._

Dean was watching him, just like before Stanford, using his own version of the X-ray eyes to find every nick and scratch under whatever clothes Sam was wearing.  
Ridiculous how some things were so very easy between them, and some so very, very hard.

Dean sighed, looked down at the journal in his lap. Backed off.

"Dean..." _I'm fine._

"Try and rest, Sam." Quiet, eyes hard on the scribblings of their father. "Dragging your spaced out ass, finding you sleeping on the job aren't exactly a few of my favourite things."

There was no joy in the sound that left him at that, but Sam still found himself laying down on the bed, arm blocking the sight of the ceiling, as if that would help. They all bore resemblance enough to burn him even awake, no matter what. He was tired (_of it all_), he knew he was a liability, but how the fuck was he supposed to tell his brother about Jessica?

_"You know, Dean, remember the way Jess died? 'Cause I dreamed about that. For goddamn _days _before it happened. Right down to every damn detail. And that's not all. Remember Bloody Mary? Remember Charlie? See, after that, I saw Jess again. Just the way she was. We passed her by, she looked straight at me and vanished as we rounded a corner. So yeah... you think maybe I'm some sort of a freak? You think Dad knew and that's why he vanished? What do you think we need to burn to lay her spirit to rest?"_

Yeah, that'd work.

No, it was just some weird...thing. Some curious deja vu kind of thing...

Sighing, mind flickering out of his body's bonds, tensions bled out by will.

"The suspects list any shorter?"

Silence answered his question. He could feel the eyes dancing over him, hear the wheels turning inside Dean's head. He could sense the other man changing his position, the whisper of clothing, the rustle of paper.

"Not really." Dean cleared his throat, shifted again. "It still could be pretty much anything." The voice became droning as Dean carried on. "We don't know enough yet. Just like I said: a ghost with a score to settle, a curse working its way through them, some spellwork gone as wrong as they can...or if it's not our kind of gig, who knows...?"

Sam listened, telling himself he wasn't going to fall asleep and dream.

"The coroner's reports should give us at least some kind of MO. The obits just said it was a heart failure, you know? If the other had a stroke and the other OD'd, I think we can drop this case and move on. If they just put in heart failure because the damn thing's missing completely, then I say we keep on diggin' 'til we find the bone."

_Good idea.  
Lousy realization._

Dean rambled on, sounding like he was in front of a class, reading aloud a page from Encyclopedia Freakia.

Somewhere between the Sluagh and something about swastikas, Sam's mind meandered, the familiar rhythm of the voice like a muffling blanket over his consciousness, slipping into silence.

Gentle shake cajoled him towards awareness, away from the endless night of nothingness.

"Sam?"

His limbs heavy, the sluggishness of sleep warm and welcome and loath to let him go. Another shake, cheeky voice wearing through the shackles of slumber.

"Rise and shine, Aurora. The night's not gonna last forever."

Eyes cracked open, the stretch began between his shoulder blades, worked its way through his stiff body as slow senses led his brains back up to speed.

Dean was standing by the other bed, testing the blade of one his knives, watching him.

He couldn't believe hours had passed. But it was dark outside, his muscles murmuring their complaints. For once, there'd been no dreams he could recall. Figured it would happen when he wasn't supposed to fall asleep, when he couldn't spare but a few moments for it.

Irony was definitely life's forte.

After that thought came the weirdness of being woken up without an alarm. Last time that had happened was way too long ago. Back when there were slow Saturdays and Jessica, lingering kisses in no hurry to get out of bed.

Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair, tried to shrug off the shades of memories. Last night had been bad enough, the incidence in the library sort of worse, with the surprise of Dean failing to notice his predicament, comment on it. He didn't need to torture himself with what-had-beens while awake, not during a potential hunt.

There were questions in the air between them, none of which he felt he wanted to answer. Might as well try and get Dean distracted.

"When did you familiarize yourself with Disney Princesses?"

Smirk alighted on the other man's lips, the long Bowie knife slipping smoothly into its sheath.

"Just be glad I didn't kiss you awake."

_Jessica did._

"I thought the story called for a Prince Charming..."

A dirty look was all the comeback he got before Dean turned, tossed his jacket at him.

"Once you really wake up, we'll get moving."

Half an hour later, the morgue was quiet, lights low and far between. A single guard rested his feet, dead men accompanying him just down the hall as the brothers broke in with ease.

This was what they'd been brought up to do, and still it left a foul taste in Sam's mouth. This wasn't the time nor the place to complain (_it never was_), though, so he remained quiet as they located the cabinets, began searching through the files.

Dean located Mainer mere breaths before Skylon, trained eyes scanning the contents quickly.

"Well, the boy was as clean as they came, apparently." Dean whistled low, staring at the report. "He wasn't even drunk. Seems like his heart just decided to give up the ghost."

Same could be said for the other man. Two perfectly healthy, whole men...dead without a warning. No way could that be shrugged off as rational.

Brief prayer made its way through his mind as Sam walked over to a photocopier in the corner, glanced at Dean, turned the machine on. His brother handed Mainer's file over, silently moved to the door to keep an eye on the hallway.

The contraption hummed electrically, ate a paper and complained quietly before spitting it out again, repeating the indigestion as Sam forced it to work. Dean glanced at him. The sounds seemed so very loud in the middle of the night. They always did.

Minutes later, Sam stuffed the folders back to their places, copies safe within his jacket.

Like shadows, they slipped out, nothing but a cooling device, tiny scratches around a couple of locks telling of their passing.

-:-

Sam stared at the papers, trying to see the secrets beyond mere ink, glean the reasons for sudden death. No signs of struggle, of substance abuses, of stress. The two men had been in perfect physical health. The only thing of note, for the coroner, had been the level of oxytocin and endorphins in both.

Dean patted his shoulder, passing him on his way to answer the pool table's call. Without a word, the elder had parked the Impala outside a bar, went in as if he hadn't just visited the morgue. Maybe it was some sort of defense mechanism. Going out, among people, alcohol and laughter...something to balance out the death and decay, ashes and loss.

There was something weird with Skylon and Mainer. Something tugged at an instinct within his bones, helped him forget Jessica in all her incarnations.

A waitress placed a bottle in front of him, walked away with a glance and a smile over her shoulder, rusty waves cascading down her back.

He should have known the answer. Everything there was to know about the corpses laid in front of him, black on white. Total system failure within moments after the heart gave out. Their length and weight, everything short of a full family tree...

He laid the papers onto the table, rubbed his eyes. It was insane. He'd slept for hours earlier, woken up just a bit over an hour ago, but still he felt as if he'd been up and about for days. He shifted his position in the booth, leaned against the corner, held his gaze on the copies, willed them to jump up and start dancing, tell him what the fuck it was they were supposedly hunting.

The bar buzzed around him, clink of glasses and blurred speech against some inane ditty, the thuds and guffaws and grumbling from the cues and their wielders.

Carefully he gathered the articles, stuffed them into his pocket.

The same weariness with the monsters and ghosts and boogiemen that had driven him to such blows with their father, urged him to leave the hunt behind before it strangled him seemed to have come back with his dreams' demise. It was nothing any amount of sleep or rest would fix.

He tipped the bottle, glanced around long enough to locate Dean, laughing, playing. Briefly he wondered if any of his brother's buddies could see the fakeness of Dean's camaraderie.

If anyone besides him could see it. The way none of the Winchesters ever really fit in, stigmatized by loss and everything that had followed.

Jess had, though. Some of it, no matter how well he'd skipped over the chapters of his childhood that dealt with graveyards and spirits and too lively legends. She'd read between the lines, connected the dots of his scars. She'd asked him about his family; he'd told her about his mother, how he'd grown up with his father and brother. The way 'sir' had begun to taste wrong on his tongue, until all it stood for, the commands without much room for questions, the demands that hardly left time for desires, made him leave for good.

She would've understood. If he'd only had the courage to tell her, if he'd only realized there was no escaping some sins, if he'd only realized how utterly stupid he'd been, believing he could leave all of it behind with a few choice words, slamming of doors and avoidance of everything he'd ever associated with the name Winchester. She could still be alive.

But he'd failed.

Someone he thought he loved more than anything else, and he couldn't even save them. Couldn't even lose them in a way that would've let him bid them farewell properly.

He closed his eyes, leaned back, the beer cool at the tips of his fingers.

_"Come on."_

His eyes snapped open at the female voice, painfully familiar, teasing with a smile. Nothing had changed, the blonde he longed to see absent, no one quite the same among the many patrons. He swallowed. Maybe he should've told Dean about her, in that corner in Toledo. Maybe he should've told Dean about the dreams. Maybe he should go and get the hell out of here right now.

A passing waitress, her auburn hair tied in a ponytail, met his gaze with a grin and a wink.

Dean might find crowds nice and pleasurable.

To Sam they were nothing short of salt, soul still seeping.

He shook his head, rose up, the cigarette smoke too close to memories. Dean couldn't miss him if he went out for a moment.

Pushing through the throng, the tall man made his way to the door, slipped into the night outside.

The silence and the coldness struck him the moment the door closed behind him, cleared some of the dizziness he felt, as if he'd been breathing in fumes. He watched the way his breath misted, the neon of a billboard painting it red. It was cold, much colder than the night before. So, okay, yeah, he hadn't really slept a whole night for a good while. Not really since the dreams begun, but...He thought he was doing okay. A couple of hours here, another few there. He hadn't fucked up so far. Not really.

The chill sneaked under his jacket, bit at his fingers, even in the pockets. Staying close to the wall, he began wandering, brisk strides breathing warmth back into his extremes. He wouldn't go far, just to the car.

_"It'll be fun."_

Memory stilled his steps, a night a lifetime ago invading his thoughts, sharper than a thousand needles. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes.

_She kneels in front of him, eyes glinting with mischief, stray locks painted magenta in the overspilling lights. _

_He draws in the air_, feeling the ice his breaths became.

He should've gone back inside. Get Dean and call it a day.

_Her tongue flicks over soft lips, her hands all over him, caressing, fondling, sending tendrils of pleasure whispering over his nerves. He rests against the wall, unable to keep his eyes open as her moist mouth swallows his head, delicate fingers play him like a flute. _

_There are people just beyond the corner, but that doesn't stop her, that doesn't bother him, either, as her tongue twists, her hands tug his pants for better access. Her idea and he no longer has a clue why he ever thought there might be something wrong with it. _

_She starts humming, the vibration of that enough for him to tilt his hips, push, try and savour the sensations, promises of release rippling from his core. She picks up the pace, lips and tongue and hands-_

And someone was shaking him, relief, panic waltzing in the voice.

Disoriented, blurry from the sudden change and shift of overlapping realities, Sam blinked, looked at the man crouched in front of him, the inflection, the glimmer in the green eyes letting him know that he'd fallen off the wagon somewhere. There were no holes in his memory, on the contrary, he thought he remembered too much, too keenly. The confined ache between his drawn up legs stirred further in the aftermath of the flashback, nails biting into his palms with the same cruelty as reality munched on his heart.  
How he'd come to sit on the ground, breath catching and billowing, comfortably solid presence of the bar's tiled wall against his back, Dean sharp and hard like one of their knives, holding his shoulder...that he couldn't recall. Leaving, yeah, heading for the car, sure, but he couldn't recall deciding that sitting on icy ground was worth a shot.

_Blackout_, his mind offered weakly, scrambling for an explanation, wishing like never before that everything after Jericho would have been naught but a nightmare.

Dean was staring at him, curiosity, _fear_ in his eyes.

"Sam?" The two were quickly combining into need, the free fingers twitching, ready to jump for the gun, the blade at the merest suggestion. "Why'd you leave?"

_"You okay?"_

He swallowed, feeling that much closer to breaking apart again. Staring at a pebble, because looking up and seeing all the facets of Dean glittering with worry would have been so much worse, made his cheeks burn.

"Wasn't feeling well." That much was true, anyway. _Getting hard over a vivid memory of a dead girlfriend giving a blowjob?_

As if they weren't aberrations enough.

He dared a glance, dragged himself up along the wall, willed the blood back from his extremes. Cold fingers he could deal with, not Dean's suggestions over his state.

"I'm fine. Just..." He waved dismissal, seeking pretense good enough unsuccessfully. "Nothing."

Deep breath, the reins back in his hands, the cold creeping through his jeans to kill the cravings as his brother rose, too.

"I thought of going back to the motel. You can go and finish your game. Catch up later."

For a moment, Dean held his gaze, everything about him so very close to the big brother Sam remembered that he almost caved in and just let go, wished Dean still possessed the ability to chase away the nightmares. Dreaded that he would pursue, push the issue.  
Then the elder man stretched, smile like a lie slipping back on, letting him go.  
"Nah. I was calling it quits already."

Half-truths, but Sam could see the reasons behind it, the need to stay together. Knew he'd screwed up by leaving without a warning. Something he had near twenty years worth of experience ingrained in his bones to never do.

But Dad wasn't here. They weren't kids anymore, and there was too much blood and seasons and books and miles between them to get things ever again back to the way they had been. Even if he'd wanted that.

Thing was, he wasn't sure anymore what he wanted.

He left the wall's comfort, shuffled toward the car.

"Sam?" Worry edged the voice. He stopped, turned slightly. "If there's anything you wanna talk about..."

_Being a freak? Failing to just move on? Semi-jerking off to Jessica's memory?_

But outside, he nodded curtly, without a word, and continued.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
"White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane is an addictive song.  
Incidentally, there's a reason why Jessica's the one holding the metaphorical leash in Sam's spells, and it doesn't have much to do with feminist views. ;)  
And so far, seeking chapter names beginning with 'S' have yielded curiously fitting results. In addition to being quite fun.  



	5. Surreptitious

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: **Wild wolf free17**, who's closer to a hawk than anything mammal with her eye for mistakes.  
**heather03nmg**, **Poaetpainter**, **WanderingAnariel**, **ephiny63**, **ziggy.uk**, **obsidian glass**, **friendly**...You guys really brighten up any day. Thank You. :)

_The blatant Make-Sam-Miserable continues.  
And now I actually feel really, really, **really** bad about this.  
-snif-_

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Surreptitious**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Dean didn't ask, he didn't tell.  
They drove in silence back to the motel; Sam pointed out the raised levels on both men's autopsy reports, shed his jacket, fell on the bed, resting his head on his hands, vehemently ignoring the way his body refused to forget the evocative visuals from earlier. Dean looked at him with a face full of question marks.

"You're the one who wanted to hunt." He let his eyes slip shut, his head drop. "Besides the fact that Skylon and Mainer were both men, they died because their hearts gave up, that's the only similarity between them."

"Oxytocin and endorphins?"

"You want to see where that rabbit hole leads?" He gestured towards the laptop on the table. "Be my guest."

He shook his head, lassitude creeping in on him again, never really having left in the first place, and rose, stretching before taking off his hoodie, the worn sneakers.  
Dean popped the laptop open, furtive eyes following his every move, unvoiced opinions bright in the depths before the bathroom door severed that lifeline.

Being discovered by your brother, unable to come up with an excuse to what the fuck you were doing should be more than enough to kill the thrill.

Of course Sam's body would take that as nothing but a challenge, strive to prove it wrong.

He stripped out of his clothes as fast as he could, left them in a pile on the floor, stepped under the shower before turning it on, nearly jumping because of the cold. Instead, he grit his teeth, let the rain patter his skin with ice. It didn't last, and the slowly warming water raised what the coolness had killed, the pressure pooling at the bottom of his stomach again, the knot tightening around his throat. Turning the water back to cold, he rested his forehead against the wall, stifling a sob.

He was losing it.

The dreams that no longer were nightmares nibbled at the numbness he'd cocooned himself in, protected himself from the pain of Jessica's death and all it stood for.

He couldn't go on like this.  
But Dean couldn't help him, either.

No amount of talking would heal the wounds, help him understand why the hell it had all happened.

No words, he suspected, would keep Dean from freaking over his dreams.  
He really didn't want to think about his brother's reaction to _those_, let alone getting hard over memories of a dead girl.

Briskly he washed himself, wanting the smell of smoke out of his hair, his head, the tremble of touch off his skin. Found his hand wandering, testing, offering friction and the rest of release, fingers curling, his fist slamming against the off-white tiles, disgusted with himself enough to savour the shock of the held-back strike.

After that, he shut off the shower, brushed his teeth, slunk back into the room, dressed while Dean sat by the table, gaze glued to the screen, notepad beside him. Without a word, feeling the green caress on his back, he laid down, closed his eyes.

Sleep slunk in, staring from the shadows, seducing his soul into slumber.

Behind him, the keyboard tapped out the rhythm of research, easy breaths a reassurance of the presence, the safety Dean had stood for the longest time. It was painfully easy to remember how that was but one of the many illusions shattered down the long spiral of years.

Memories skimmed through his head sluggish, erratic, mix of childhood (_crumpled paper with crayon over symbols, the thing in the closet, sleeping in the backseat of the Impala, waiting for Dad_) and later, more vivid impressions of the years preceding Stanford (_angry words, fear acrid and foul in the back of his throat as there was just enough blood, pride and pain, and the never-ending fire_), and of course, like a bedrock of his world, Jessica. Shadows smiling with her, kissing her skin, her hand so very small as it slipped into his, _the late night curling around them, her laughter bubbling over the hum and harm of Halloween everywhere. _

_It's well past midnight, and she's joking, tipsy enough from drinks his paranoia's denied him. _

_"Figures that I'd miss the deadline and end up with a law student instead of a Prince Charming." _

_He returns her smile, arm slipping around her silver-clad shoulders, the skulls and the ghosts strewn all over the city clearly a lie but too close for comfort, knowing what's out there. _

_"And how'd you know?" _

_She hooks an arm around his waist, leans against him, her skirt rustling. "First of all, no horse. Though if you dressed up, you could pass as one..." _

_It's one of the few nights during the year when he can't forget where he comes from, that there are five blades strategically hidden around their apartment, all within easy reach, salt in the night table drawer, in the bathroom cabinet, an extra package in the kitchen. He swore he was done hunting, that he'd never return to it, but he won't be a fool and close his eyes, even though he'd love nothing better than to see only the woman beside him, the life she brings with her. _

_"What would that make you, then?" he retorts, tightening his grip, playing along. _

_"Well..." She steps in front of him, presses against him, voice husky. "I think I were Lady Godiva in a past life..." Her breath's hot against his skin, her hands sliding down his body, grabbing his waist, cupping his groin. "'Cause that would explain why I've always wanted to _ride _a horse..." _

_He laughs and pulls her closer, the night cool enough around them for the shared warmth to be sweet. She raises her face, accepts his lips and takes the lead. There's no room for thoughts after that as she pulls him after her, draws him up the stairs, into a kiss that tastes of tequila and thirst, her hands under his shirt, on his hips. There's a whisper of lamé, and she presses against him anew, her skin soft and sweet and singing like a siren to him. _

_She scurries up to straddle him as the bed welcomes him, laughter on his lips._

"Sam!"

_Not her voice._

Rougher, lower, commanding in a whole different way. Promising not pleasure, just passion. Dragging him from dreams as he blinked, the grip around his arm no longer tender and petite, but tense and painful, the eyes peering down at him not dark with desire but with disquiet. Realization settled in as sentience scrambled back, his heart racing, clothes too tight, air too heavy.

Dean stared at him, sitting on Sam's bed fully clothed, green gaze intent.

Sam swallowed, backed against the headboard, ran a hand through damp hair pulling his legs up. His brother didn't move, eyes locked with his, hand lowered to rest on the rumpled covers.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he tried hoarsely. "Sorry."

Didn't matter whether his dreams were bad or wet, his brother was always there, breaking them.

"Wasn't sleeping."

The words quiet and careful, the glare glittering in the minimal light from outside, Dean refused to let him flee his attention.   
Sam's eyes slipped to the clock on the night table, the red numbers bright in the dark, then back to his brother.

"You trying to break the world record for staying up?"

"This has to stop, Sam."

No blame, just hushed concern, twisting a knife in his gut, making him bristle.

"You know, that's a great idea. I'll just turn the switch off in my head and forget about her."

"That's not what I meant." Still muted, barely defensive at his raised tone. He swallowed again, throat tight, fingers curling into a fist, refusing to meet the look.

"I'm fine." The lie was easier, though no truer, this time.

"No, you're not." Dean's voice was steel beneath the silk, adamant under amicability. "You haven't been for a long while."

There was challenge in the chill gaze, shadowing the words like a serpent. He faced it, the edges of his soul splintered by the suggestion.

_Can't deny that._

Finally he let his eyes drop, sighed, the cover twisted in his hands, the helpless aggression leaching out.

"I'm dealing with her death, Dean," he said softly. "I am."

The look on his brother's face, though, the subtle shiver of skepticism, stroked him the wrong way. "So back off. A .45 and consecrated rounds not gonna solve this."

Silent spell reigned for a breath, the dare still between them, stare-down so very reminiscent of the years before Stanford. Except that back then it was more often between him and Dad, not him and Dean.

Then, near imperceptibly, the stockier man nodded, rose fluidly, patted Sam's knee. "Alright," he muttered. "Just... I'm not going anywhere, Sam."

It was quiet comfort, one that hurt with familiarity. Something tightened its hold around his heart just enough, threatened to close up his throat, made forming words a feat.

"Thanks," he managed, received a smile that bore no similitude to happiness in answer. The olivine eyes he still couldn't hide from flashed, and Dean moved to his own bed, began peeling off the many layers of his clothes.

Sam sighed, settled back on his side, shifting in search of a comfortable position. He didn't expect to be able to shut his eyes again for the rest of the night. For once when his dreams were even distantly pleasant, though as shameful as they'd ever been in his teens, he doubted his chances at recovery.

So when the sun, beaming at the world like the cat that got the canary, woke him up, helped him flee from a nascent nightmare, the sheets twisted around his aching body, he didn't know whether to appreciate the fact that he had gotten some sleep or praise that he'd gotten good enough to escape before they really turned nasty, one way or the other, and roused the other occupant of the room, too.

There was no avoiding how wrong it felt to wake up without Jessica beside him.

But the morning was well on its way, the sun shattering the shades, they were in the middle of a hunt. So he pretended the pain away, gave his best shot at shooing away Dean's suspicions. He made a point of not letting his thoughts wander beyond the present, set off any alarms inside his brother's head, keeping up with Dean's inquiries, restocking some essential (and less so) equipment, Skylon and Mainer's faces dancing with question marks around his skull.

He ate, he talked, he followed Dean's lead rather than was dragged.

And all through the day, like memory of blood, still there though none of it remained, Jessica haunted his every step. Just the right angle to the light that stroked a girl's hair, the right cadence to a voice of a woman passing by, ghost of a scent from a bouquet, and he was distracted from whatever they were doing.  
It had been but weeks, and all he could think about was the way her body had felt like, surrounding him, swallowing him time and again, her arms the closest to a home he had ever known, her presence alone enough to pull him from penitence to paradise.

The way he missed her touch.

The way he needed that sort of release.

By the time they reached afternoon, he wanted to throw up, get rid of the bile staining his guts, the sins Bloody Mary had whispered to him.

Absolution avoided him, the promise of redemption slipping ever further from his reach as his every step was stained with _I should've died_.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:  
Do you have any idea how tempted I am to turn this into wincest?  
This won't feature that specific curiosity (_alas?_), but the temptation's there...;) 


	6. Specious

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: **Wild wolf free17**, without whom there'd be massive amounts of abuse concerning 'lie' and 'lay'-words. :)  
**Onari**, **heather03nmg**, **ziggy.uk**, **ephiny63**...and my dearest Wolf. Blessings on all of you for your kind words.

_Nothing new, y'all.   
Save that the tense happily enters hell towards the end..._

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Specious**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Day turned to night as the painting of the men's lives grew exceedingly detailed. Dean offered him a concerned look, another, his mouth closed but about the case, the victims, the people they knew, the people they hung out with, the places they frequented; anything they could possibly have in common. Skylon's jogging routine took him past Mainer's house, one of his sons dated Mainer's ex once, they both liked a beer or two on occasion. Skylon was set in his ways to a fault; Mainer shared his time haphazardly between school and friends, living with his parents.  
Both had lost family to heart failures, though none as young as either of them.

Dean still wanted to drive that train of thought all the way to the station, and Sam was willing enough to tag along. Hiding his hurts, trying to ignore the incessant throb below his belly. Every time the denim brushed closer, the touch too much and yet far too little, inviting insanity, he sought distance desperately.

Dusty from the day's travels, Sam headed to a shower the moment they returned to the motel, welcoming the privacy of the lukewarm spray, the white noise of water washing away the sin.  
It didn't make him feel better, but at least it eased the pressure.

Pulling his clothes on, Dean lost in the depths of the internet, Sam's thoughts wandered to the waitress from their first night in town, the slip of paper he'd thrown away without another look. Maybe he shouldn't have done that. Maybe Dean was right, and he should just...take, use what was offered. Ignore the way nothing could possibly fill the hole _she_ left.

_No one expected fidelity to carry over death, right? "'Till death do us part" and all that?_

Though that phrase had lost its meaning long before he first heard it. Death, he knew only too well, was hardly always the end.

Maddest thing was, the waitress (_with red hair?_) was probably the healthiest thing he'd thought of within the last few days.  
At least better by far than thinking of sex with his dead girlfriend.

Without a word, he lay down on the bed, no longer strong enough to fake interest in the case, in research, in thinky thoughts.

_But what if it's all Jessica's doing?_

Ghosts and spirits could haunt people after all, fettered not to a place, not to their remains, but someone they couldn't let go off. Would it really be far-fetched to think she could come to him in dreams, when his defenses were down, salvage some of what they'd had?

He closed his eyes, the erratic staccato of keys under unerring fingers, the quiet legato of Dean's breaths, the marcato of a car speeding away outside close enough to a lullaby to lure him away.

Dreams would come to him, no matter what he did. Maybe the key to getting rid of them was not fighting, not fleeing, not fearing their outcome. With a sigh, Sam let himself drift away, thinking of that corner in bright morning light, her hair and _Maybe..._

-:-

_Slender arms wrap around his waist, pull him against warm body, hungry lips at the nape of his neck, kisses raining upon his shoulder. He clasps the arms, relieved in their reality, their embrace strong. _

_Something's wrong, the night around them hissing with horrors. _

_His arms tighten around her as he stuffs the memories of grimoires back into the closet with the rest of the skeletons, concentrating on here and now. There's no room for magic in this thing between them, no need to drag around fears he was taught to fight. _

_Careful, her fingers slip over his torso, exploring, claiming, her slighter frame firm against his. Her lips reach higher, brush his earlobe, breathe a whisper. Her hand creeps over his waist, teasing, few stray curls blushing in the light of a paper lantern. _

_She doesn't say anything, and he melts against her, his eyes drifting closed, comfortable in the grip of this predatory paramour as she caresses, works the magic of her touch. She lets her digits dip ever lower, soft breasts crushed against his shoulder blades. She shifts, and he complies, rolls over onto his back, raising his arms to hold her as she dives in for a kiss, the waves of strawberry washing over him. Her hands return, start slowly rubbing in relaxation, determined. He sighs, moans low as her dainty fingers close around him, pet him to full attention. _

_She moves again, trapping him between them as she lies on top of him, leans down to trail over his collarbone, the vulnerable expanse of his throat. It's sweet torture to his senses, but feeling so very right, release riding through his system, seeking a way out. _

_Her lips shiver against the tender spot beneath his ear. _

_"Crash and burn." _

_It's hardly even a whisper, loud enough to shatter the illusion. _

_Burn._

His eyes tore open, unseeingly stared at the ceiling still stained with sensations long past, waited for his heart to calm down again, struggling to assure his lungs there was no CO in the room, stealing the air.

His body felt heavy, his lids slipping shut, solitary tears trailing down.

It _hurt_.  
So many days since _that_ and it _hurt_ worse than even what had happened in that Antique Store in Toledo. Impotent rage met very eager body, and only trouble lay that way.

A shuddering breath, his lungs desperately choking on mere memories of smoke and cinders, his eyes fooled enough by the glance of lights from a passing car to see the flames again, his brains empty save for the urge to _leave_.  
He scrambled out of the bed, blindly sought his clothes, tugged on his jacket. The blood in his ears buried the breaths from the other bed, the burn in his bowels bellowing orders for him to bolt, flee with all his might.

He was halfway through the cords of his sneakers when the calm tempo of sleep stuttered, the sheets rustled and shifted.

"Sam?"

_Shit._

"It's okay, Dean. Just...go back to sleep."

Of course it didn't work.

"What're you doin'?" Sitting up straighter, eyes slipping into awareness with ease that was all Dean. "You okay?"

"Yeah..." he fumbled, feeling awkward, his head clouded. "I just need some fresh air. I'll be right back. Sorry for waking you up."

Even in the darkness, he could see the doubt on his brother's face. Insane, yes, but he felt like laughing, panic bright in his gut, the flames all too close.

"You sure?"

"Dean, please..." He hoped the sound escaping his throat wasn't as hysterical as he felt. "I'm fine. I just..." The walls were closing in on him, falling on him, pressing nearer with each inhale. "I need some room. Some air. Sorry."

"Sam-"

But the door was too loud after him, the coldness killing the kiln his memories had painted out of the room, his hurried strides leading him without direction just away. No steps sounded after him, no voice called out to him, pleaded with him.

He prayed that Dean understood, would leave him alone.  
Alone just for long enough to get his act back together again, burrow back deep enough to hide from all the pain.

The witching hour long gone, the moon safe under its thin cloud cover, the sun still sleeping, his aimless wandering took him down streets he couldn't care less about. Another car rumbled in the distance, the streetlamps stretched the shadows. Small town, smaller hours, everyone else happily in their beds.

His legs lapped up the lanes, the chill slipping past the flimsy fabric of his sweatpants, shiver running its fingers down his spine under the t-shirt and jacket. He didn't stop, wouldn't. As long as he kept on moving, it really wouldn't matter how far the quicksilver plunged. Breath curling in the night, he welcomed the sting as stores and offices made way for suburbs, the houses as dead to the world as their occupants, their empty eyes banishing him to a shadowed copse that probably served as a park.

Abandoned, a swing set stood still, the trees reaching up like dead men praying.  
The wispy blankets shifted in the sky, let the crescent caress the world. He raised his eyes, watched the brightest pinpricks of stars, the constellations familiar.

_Jessica loved this._

But pain was the only thing that thought could evoke. Pain of losing her, pain of what if, pain of surviving.  
Pain of living.

Heavy-limbed, he leaned against one of the tree trunks, breaths frost-bitten, cold fingers deep in his pockets, ice crunching under his sneakers.

He couldn't do that.  
Dean would just stop him and lecture about the stupidity of it.  
Except that Dean wouldn't do that. He'd just look look at Sam, questions like locusts never pouring past his lips. They'd never mention it, the scars would be just simply shushed, implications ignored.

_Not if you do it right._

He shivered, toes curling against the cold, his extremes numb. Cursed under his breath as he drew in his shoulders, left the support of the leafless tree, feet shuffling over a fine layer of undisturbed snow.

If he returned with the beginnings of a pneumonia, Dean'd kill him.

He cast a glance at the glittering firmament above him, the world quiet and empty and _dead_ around him.  
The distant lights mocked him, reminded him of the nights he'd spent with a blonde beauty, learning their astronomy, the curves and planes of planets. He swallowed, hard, _feeling gentle arms slip around to embrace him, the heat radiating through the layers of cloth._

The sudden presence, the touch all too familiar, the knowledge that he'd been snuck up on made him spin around, come face to face with a woman who shouldn't be there, _his hands finding solid flesh beneath the t-shirt she's wearing, pulse bright against his frozen fingers, breaths billowing in the air. She smiles, her champagne curls darker in the shadows._

She couldn't be real.  
She was dead, burned to naught but ashes with his dreams.

_"Don't tell me you've never read of the Phoenix," she whispers, leaning closer, her warmth sweet, reaching every recess of his bones. "Ashes to ashes, and that's just another beginning."_

It couldn't be her.

_But it sounds like her, looks like her, smells like her. Feels like her as she presses against him, raises her head to brush their lips together, breath susurrant against his skin, her form firm within his arms._

A shudder worked its way through him, strangled the sob in his chest as he leaned in to _taste her, revel in a lucid dream far better than the truth. _

_She pushes him, devours his mouth as she leads him,_ the scrape of chill through the textile of his pants ripping him to reality, to the cold shower of knowing that, at best, she could be nothing but a ghost, a spirit, something he'd been taught to fight off his entire life.

Something was broken, the locks flashed red, _her lips on his anew, feverish fingers scrambling at the folds and zippers of his clothes. He doesn't want to fight her, can't remember why he should. Until her teeth jar too sharply against his throat_, and the shock shook him back to some simulacrum of sensibility. Legion of languages flickered through his mind, random recollections offered revelations and redemption in turns, every intellectual instinct urging him to ward her off, seek safety, knowing it would be too late, his body refusing to obey his will.

She smiled like the shark she was, straddling him, the mirage failing for a blink, pale eyes dark, honey hair crimson.

_She dives for his throat, tongues of fire on his skin.  
She whispers, her voice a laughter as the reality sinks in. It's too late for anything but submission, even though he now knows what she is, the truth in every tremble her touch elicits from his body. He doesn't fight it, can't as she curls around him, fills his senses, knowledge useless as arousal assaults him in full force.  
Each syllable slipping into his blood is pure sex as she tells him how much sweeter men like him are, so sworn to a single woman that they ignore her, cast away her proposal without a glance, shrug off her suggestions. Deem themselves forbidden fruits, thinking themselves noble, and become doomed by their demurral. _

_But she's alive, she's Jess, vibrant shades and scents and savours against the dead of winter, and that's all he wants, all he's ever wanted, her arms around him, claiming him like he's all there is. _

_She murmurs sweet nothings now, teeth sharp, pleasure primeval and promiscuous, _the lore laid bare in his mind. Her ilk desired only one thing, _"and is it really so bad?"_ He wanted to argue, knew he couldn't have long, lips unwilling around words of warding _"And now there's no one to save you..." _

_She taunts him, laughs at the lethargy of his attempts. "No big brother, no pesky ghost". His nerves burn, his blood acid in his veins, her hands skilled_ beyond anything human. _He's lost the strings, a mere marionette, subject to sensations_, a murmur suggesting it was all _her_ doing, his fatigue, his failure to understand; his heart knew there was enough lies and remorse to succumb into despondency all by himself.

_But she's alike enough to something he's longed for, and the way out she offers is so much sweeter and faster and neater than he's ever dared to hope for any of his family. _

_So he stops fighting, lets go, feels the dream descend like an angel even though she's anything but. He wants this, can't deny anything he knows, everything she offers, not as long as she's Jessica, in all the ways he can possibly tell _(Jess is dead)_, in all the ways that really matter once gratification is the only goal. _

_Without conscious thought, his eyes slip shut as the promise besieges him, nerves raw under the assault. _

_Even when she tears toward his chest, ecstasy sparkling behind his eye lids, even as her fire-like fingers seek his heart, she's close enough for him to still want to believe, give over everything. Go out with a bang. _

_Dean'll burn his corpse, release him to rest. A prayer rides each breath, a part of him lost with each exhale, pleading for anyone besides her who might hear, to forgive him, keep Dean safe, help him find Dad. _

_Sam welcomes the darkness, the wild beats of his heart picking up the pace, turning frantic in their hurry to escape the inevitable, and he feels better than any living thing should, drowning with delight. _

_This is the end, then, and he can't say he has regrets._


	7. Surcease

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

Thank You: **Wild wolf free17**, who's...just plain adorable. Go hug her, everyone!  
**Ziggy.uk**, **Onari**, **heather03nmg**, **friendly** and **quesse.beryl**, everyone else who has read this, or who will read this, perhaps even comment... Thank You for your patience and your encouragement. It's been a pleasure.

_So ends this twisted fable's worth..._

* * *

**Schattenfreund:  
Surcease**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

_The pleasure shifts to pain and grating gasps, the warm satisfaction to cold suffocation and "Damn it, Sam, don't do this!" _

_He's freezing, and he can't stop it, can't stop the soul-deep chill and the savage shakes it brings, the hint of a white nightie he thinks he sees in the corner of his eye as the night sky explodes on his sight. Senses overload, nerves scramble in search of purchase, Dean's face hovers above him, twisted by sharp lines of worry, the hands on his arms like fire, and he goes under again, consciousness spilling out with delight._

-:-

He came to in a muted cocoon of ache and thrum woven of memories by wheels and familiar engine, warm within, without, cramped and hurting.  
Recollections rushed to fill him in, threw him back onto the shore of sentience with a sharp inhale, the morning sun streaking into the world, seeking to blind him, the stereo quiet, his body whole, reassuringly heavy, his heart hammering.

_Dream._

But there was a blanket tucked around him, clamminess to his clothes, his skin too sensitive. Promise of bruises on his chest. There was Dean beside him, hands on the wheel, watching him like a cat as he caught up with the present, pieced together the past.

What happened, how easily he fell...  
No matter how effortlessly he thought he had slipped back into nomadism, how familiar the guns and the gasoline and the salt felt in his hands, he hadn't hunted for years. He'd let himself, over the long months, relax too much. Grow rusty.  
He didn't know what happened, memories jumbled and out of order, saturated with the life-long trust/knowledge that, somehow, _Dean'll fix it_.  
And he had.

"How'd you know?"

It was hard to recognize the scratchy sound as his own voice.

Dean's lips quirked, gaze dancing from the road to him and back again.

"As if you were ever hard to read." There was a shadow behind the smirk, worry behind the wisecrack. "College didn't change you that much, you know."

Green gaze held Sam's a moment more, locking then onto the road ahead.

Sam licked his lips, swallowed, sought a way to release himself from the confines of the comforter.

"You can get cleaned up in the next town we hit," Dean's steady voice piped up. "Until then, keep that on." Another smile at him, careful eyes skimming over his body. "Don't want you to suffer from the flu for the next week or something, you know. "

He shivered at the reminder, but drew the blanket closer. He felt drawn out, drained, like he'd been hiking the better part of the last week, or partook in a triathlon. And then he remembered her. Skylon, Mainer, too, but the phantasm of Jess-that-wasn't-Jess sprang to the foreground in his thoughts.

He should've realized what they were hunting, what she was, at least after the visit to the morgue. He would have, had he not fallen into her trap like some amateur.

"What tipped you off?"

The fingers caressed the wheel, drummed out a few notes. For a good while, there was nothing.

"I thought you were getting better."

The quiet words threw Sam off his balance. Dean was staring straight ahead, eyes cold and distant.

"So I thought it was just some...relapse, or something. Didn't honestly think that much about it before you nodded off in the library. That's when my gut told me to keep an eye on you. And everything. The whole damn thing with the pleasure hormones was kind of a dead giveaway, but...reading Dad's journal cinched it. After that..."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

A shadow of the smirk on the lips, smothered by the wariness in the olivine eyes that turned to him.

"Didn't want to clue that bitch in." Dean cleared his throat, glanced outside, started digging something out of the glove compartment. "By the time I figured what was going on, she had her claws so deep in you, I..." He tapered off, pulled out a bottle of Mountain Dew. "Here. Drink. We'll catch some breakfast after you stop standing out like a sore thumb."

Sam manouvered his arms loose, downed some of the sweet, bubbly drink as Dean eased his eyes back to the road.

"What happened?" he asked quietly then, twisting the cap back on.

"How much do you remember? Mainer and Skylon and this nice little vixen called Shelley the Succubus? Forgetting the middle of fucking winter and a single layer of clothes don't go well together?"

And so much more. The physicality of his dreams... Succubi _were_ said to be behind wet dreams. But what he could remember, it was more like reliving the memories, Jessica just the way she had been.   
Caught up in grief and fruitless thirst for vengeance boiling within his belly, he couldn't really say he was surprised. _But what did it offer the two other men, both apparently happy in their relationships? Some starlet far from their reach? First love? _

"Sam?"

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, felt like he wanted to rest for eternity and a queasy shiver of familiarity slipped through his bones.

"I remember all that," he admitted softly, mind on other memories. "I meant..." He hesitated, searching words. Decided there wasn't a way to put it nicely. "How come I'm still alive?"

'Nice' was hard to find in the Winchester Dictionary anyway.

Judging by the way the knuckles on the wheel lost a shade or several before the tension broke and Dean relaxed, cast Sam a look, e had really, honest-to-God, fucked up this time.

"You were wrong."

Okay. Talk about not being the expected answer. Sam cleared his throat, trying to figure out what Dean meant by that. He'd been an ass, certainly, but wrong?

"About what?"

"Turns out a .45 and consecrated rounds were good enough solution."

The chuckle reverberated behind his sternum, his chest smarting.

"Good thing you were packing, then. And not as asleep as I thought you were."

Dean shrugged, glanced at a road sign.

"You going' for a walk in your PJs after moaning yourself awake? Even if I'd been wrong, you'd have frozen your nuts off."

"I didn't think it was that cold..."

"Then, just so you know in the future, stay away from blue lipstick. Definitely not your colour."

_Just like the old times. Laugh at death, and it's no longer the end of the world._

But there wasn't much Sam could say to that. Dean would just brush away Thank Yous. So the silence returned.

He found himself hoping that Dean's Big Brother Omniscience had been experiencing errors for the last few days. Because he could remember the time between then and now, the pure need, desire to end it all that he couldn't blame on Shelley. Not completely.  
But Dean, the Dean he recalled growing up with, _his_ Dean, had his back, kept an eye on him. Always had, always would.

The warmth within him wasn't just physical.  
It had been a cold and desolate place Jessica's death had propelled him into. But Dean was with him, holding open the door to some simulacrum of life. He'd catch Sam if he ever went too close to the edge, he'd pull him from the brink. Had shot his damn car to get Constance off him, had dragged him out of the fire... tugged at him until he could think of something else than Jessica and blood and vengeance.

_Would welcome back with open arms after finding out about the dreams?_

"You okay?"

Wariness still weighed the voice, Dean's hand firm through the layers of fabric, shaking Sam out of the stupor he'd slid into. He blinked, shifted in his seat, eyes absentmindedly watching the scenery outside.

"Yeah..."

"You did hear what I said about the lipstick, right?" Dean pursued, gaze skimming over him. Sam's lips curled into a halfhearted smile.

"Yeah," he repeated, voice wandering. "I think I got enough of that seeing _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ with you."

The sun returned, battling with its celestial counterpart in brightness.

"Can't tell me that wasn't fun!"

"After the rest of the audience got even more wasted? Easily."

Dean glanced at him, the familiar jocularity glittering about him.

"So...you ready to tell me about those dreams of yours?"

Sucker punch, and the bottle fell from Sam's fingers as the Impala raced over a bump on the road.

He knew he should.  
After everything...it would only be fair. But he hadn't had any like them afterwards, just the repetitions of the nightmares, some horror movie-inspired twists on his memories. Maybe they were nothing.  
Maybe Jessica in that corner in Toledo was nothing but his guilt and imagination, exhaustion and grief from the encounter with Mary.

He bent down to pick up the bottle, grasping at straws for few moments to figure out what to do.

If the nightmares were nothing, Dean'd dismiss him, and he'd remain 'Sammy', the baby of the family. Teased until judgment day for getting scared of a few wacky visions, making mountains out of molehills.

If they were something...he'd be even more of a freak than before.

He drew in a breath, tugged the blanket closer as he settled back on his seat. Dean didn't need to know. It wouldn't do any good anymore, anyway. They were far too late to save Jess, and all his dreams _after_ had been nothing like the nightmares _before_.

"Some day," he exhaled, closing his eyes. If something like them returned, and someone else was slain by something weird while he watched on, then he'd tell. Maybe. If it came unavoidable. "But not yet."

He felt the gaze touch him once more, but the quiet remained unbroken.

He knew it wasn't good enough.  
But it was better than nothing.

Somewhere between the thrum and the warmth of the car and a memory of simpler times, Dean's presence a comfort, Sam drifted off into shadow-free sleep.

* * *

**Author's Long Notes**:  
My apologies.  
Again, the baddie got taken out 'off-screen'. And what emotional resolution? But unfortunately Dean didn't find out about Sam's premonitions before 1x09, Home. Though what I've written is more than likely to be AU, I'm not willing to break established canon. Especially since it's been well over a year since that episode first aired.

I hope this at least tied up the story's strings. I don't dare to hope it's satisfactory, but the resurrection spell for the plot-bunnies after 2x17 is taking longer than anticipated, and a stupid cold's ruining my mastery of English, too.

Just one final comment...  
_Schattenfreund_ is German, meaning 'shadow-friend'. I'm still bemoaning the fact that I couldn't fit in a chapter called _Schadenfreude_ (also from German for the pleasure derived from the misfortune of others, literally 'harmjoy'), for the similarity of the terms alone.


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